


Champagne For My Real Friends, Real Pain For My Sham Friends

by eternally_winding, Mellomailbox



Category: Captain America (Comics), Captain America (Movies), Captain America - All Media Types
Genre: BAMF Bucky Barnes, Bucky Barnes & Tony Stark Friendship, Bucky gets out on his own before insight, Bucky goes by Sanya, F/M, Gen, Kinda, M/M, Multi, Multiple Personalities, Not Captain America: The Winter Soldier Compliant, mention of past tony/bucky, two (2) adopted spy children, updates twice a week
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-04
Updated: 2018-12-31
Packaged: 2019-09-06 20:46:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 20,276
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16840114
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eternally_winding/pseuds/eternally_winding, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mellomailbox/pseuds/Mellomailbox
Summary: "I can't give you what you want." He says, regretting the decision to make himself known. Why did he?Because you miss him, sings a voice in the back of his mind, where the rest of his more annoying impulses originate from.“You don’t know that,” Steve argues."What do you want from me?"“Anything at all you can give me— information, time, anything.” Steve scrambles up and backs away, giving Bucky space, an out if he needs it. His hair is flopping into his eyes and he chews his lip, debating his next words.Fuck it.“I’m in love with you, and we promised till the end of the line. This ain’t it, and I know you’re a stubborn piece of work and I don’t really know how you’re here, but even if you don’t think you’re him I gotta be with you. It’s who I am.”





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> We'll be updating every Monday and Thursday. Hello new fandom!

Look, he’s not the punk he used to be. He can’t be, what with the extra height and muscle and power and fucking notoriety that comes with his extra-square jaw (maybe Bucky doesn’t recognize him the way he doesn’t recognize himself some days).  
  
He’s grown. Matured. He’s the leader of a team. He saved the world.  
  
He’s definitely not kicking a plastic garbage dumpster across the alley in a fit of rage, is all he’s saying.  
  
Little bits of trash go spraying across the dirty ground, a solid crack in the plastic bin from Steve’s kick. He curses, clenches his fist, tells himself he needs to calm down and the voice in his head sounds just like Bucky, _yous got nothin to prove to nobody, Steve, you oughta stop getting your face uglied or even the nuns won’t take ya_ , and fuck if that doesn’t piss him off more.  
  
“I know you’re playing with me!” He shouts, shoulders back and fists balled. “Get down here and fight me!”  
  
"You shouldn't be here."

Steve startles, not expecting a response, and turns in a circle while he looks around.  
  
It was an ignorant idea to come back here, to the scene of the crime. Surely, they would be watching the alley in which the Soldier had escaped from their grasp, but that was precisely why he had to come back. It had absolutely nothing to do with a certain blond that haunts the Soldier's memories.  
  
Absolutely nothing.  
  
Speaking to him, acknowledging him, well, he's declaring temporary insanity, which if you're familiar with his situation, isn't too far off the mark.  
  
Soldier looks different when he emerges from the shadows, hands tucked into black jeans whose purpose took a left turn at purely for efficiency and settled at looking hella good. A navy sweater peeks out under his jacket, highlighting the blue in his eyes. His eyes. They're guarded, but open, less cold and more.. amused?  
  
"What would your pals think if they saw you beating on innocent dumpsters? They see enough abuse, don'cha think?" It's easy as anything to taunt him. The words fly out of his mouth before he has a chance to reign them in, a touch of humor evident in his tone.  
  
Well. That's a new personality development.  
  
And yet, the anger rushes out of Steve at the sight of Bucky.  
  
God. It’s _Bucky_ .  
  
Before he can really think about what he’s doing he’s crushing his earpiece under his boot and ripping the cowl down from his head to hang off his back like a hood.  
  
“Bucky” he says, voice cracking, and he reaches for him even though he knows it’ll only push him further back. He told himself he wasn’t going to do this. He’s supposed to play it calm, make sure not to spook him.  
  
Christ, why can’t he just be calm?  
  
“Not as sturdy as they used to be,” he finally forces out, voice rough and soft like when his lungs would get real bad.  
  
“Buck,” he starts, stepping forward a step, palms open, “please. Please talk to me. It don’t gotta be here, your choice, but h-“ _honey_ he almost says, and play it cool Rogers come on, “- h-hell, I gotta get some answers.”  
  
It's as quick a change as anything is; one second his expression is humorous, the next it shutters and a chill creeps in so quickly his features freeze over into nothing.  
  
"You and me both." He mutters, low enough that the sentence is scattered by the wind in the next second.  
  
Soldier steps backwards as Steve advances, always keeping a distance, never letting Steve close. He can see the emotions warring within him, and that's dangerous, that makes him unpredictable.  
  
"You shouldn't. Be here." He repeats, his voice so stony it gives the Great Wall of China a run for its money.  
  
“Buck” he pleads, falling to his knees— a show of faith, submission, sublimation— whatever Bucky needs.  
  
“Where else would I be? It’s you.”  
  
Steve’s tongue darts out to wet his lips, eyes searching for some sort of recognition in the icy gaze on his dead lovers face.  
  
“Do you remember me?” He asks, means to leave it at that but his traitorous mouth adds, “do you remember us?”  
  
It takes a moment for him to process, but the man wearing Bucky Barnes' face eventually shakes his head.  
  
"It's not me." He lets his gaze roam over Steve, on his knees and begging-- pleading for him. He ignores the urges that scream from a deep, dark place within him to hurt, to destroy, and clarifies. "The man you knew is dead. There is no us."  
  
He finds that now, standing at the edge of an alley, staring down the man from his dreams, he's unprepared. He's unprepared for the flash of shock, of hurt, on Steve's face. He's unprepared for the feelings it causes, inside, stirring up dust in the empty place his heart resides.  
  
His expression crumples into something reminiscent of a frown, and he shifts as if he's planning to make a run for it.  
  
It’s an answer Steve was expecting but was in no way prepared for, the pain so sharp he wonders if Bucky got a knife in him without him noticing.  
  
Soldier's expression is uncomfortable, probably with the sight of Captain Fucking America losing his shit on his knees in an alley, and Steve senses that he’s about to bolt and reacts instinctively.  
  
He lunges, grabbing Bucky around the ankle and catching the inevitable kick with his other hand, not thrilled with the idea of steel toed boot to the face.  
  
Steve pulls and twists to bring Bucky down in a maneuver used long ago when they would wrestle in the apartment, Steve tiny and confident if he could just get his arms around Bucky he could distract him long enough to get on top.  
  
Soldier goes with it, tucking himself in close as he braces for a roll. His metal hand snakes out to grab hold of Steve's hand on his ankle when he hits ground, not prying it off but instead holding on as he uses the momentum to throw him, not at all moderating his strength like Bucky did back then. This Bucky-- he's teeth and nails and violence, getting hit hard and hitting back harder.  
  
Steve’s not so much tactics in fighting and a lot more just muscle and blind luck, and so Bucky throws him off easily, crouching into a defensive posture that Steve matches with a roll and his own crouch, expression troubled. “Don’t leave,” he begs, but it comes out more like an order, the low timbre of the Captain voice almost always turned on these days.  
  
Soldier sizes Steve up, narrowing in on his face, so earnest it's an asset liability. It takes him a few long, tense moments to piece together his thoughts, and when he does his words are every bit as guarded as his posture is.  
  
"I can't give you what you want." He says, regretting the decision to make himself known. Why did he? _Because you miss him_ , sings a voice in the back of his mind, where the rest of his more annoying impulses originate from.

“You don’t know that,” Steve argues.

  
"What do you want from me?"  
  
“Anything at all you can give me— information, time, anything.” Steve scrambles up and backs away, giving Bucky space, an out if he needs it. His hair is flopping into his eyes and he chews his lip, debating his next words.  
  
Fuck it.  
  
“I’m in love with you, and we promised till the end of the line. This ain’t it, and I know you’re a stubborn piece of work and I don’t really know how you’re here, but even if you don’t think you’re him I gotta be with you. It’s who I am.”  
  
Steve lifts his chin like he’s five foot nothing again and facing down Bucky’s wrath over something stupid Steve did, finishing, “and I don’t break a promise. Till the end of the line, whether you like it or not.”  
  
"Christ." He's underestimated how problematic this is. Steve's in love with him. Or at least, the version of him that he knew.  
  
A few strands of hair have slipped from the ponytail he put his hair in, so he thumbs them back with his metal hand. His sleeves are pushed up to his forearms, silver glinting ominously in the sun.  
  
He doesn't have to prod to know that Steve isn't likely to give this up anytime soon. It's as bone-deep an understanding as understandings come. He could shoot him a few times, get the message across clear, but something within wars against that idea, a directive that yells protect him instead of harm.  
  
He shoots a look behind Steve, towards the rooftops."And what about your friends?"  
  
Steve’s eyes are glued to Bucky’s arm. He’s seen blurry photos of it, even some specs drawn up by the Widow after they discovered that the Winter Soldier she knew and the one making friends underground were one and the same.  
  
Seeing it up close and casually attached to Bucky’s shoulder is a whole other ballgame.  
  
“What?” He asks, licking his lips, eyes skittering back and forth from Bucky’s to his arm and finally settling back on Bucky’s eyes.  
  
“They’re nothing. I mean, my team’s good people and I trust them nearly as much as the Howlies, but you’re it for me, Buck.” He scratches at his neck awkwardly, sensing someone approaching. Damn serum.  
  
“Here, knock me out,” he tells Bucky, patting his cheek. “Hard enough I can claim a blank spot in my memory. Steal my phone and take out the tracker, my address is programmed in.”  
  
His eyes are pleading and he gets back on his knees, palms up, ready for whatever Bucky will do to him.  
  
“Please.”  
  
It's real hard to see him like this, pliant and serving himself up to a killer-- a monster, really, just because he bears the face of Steve's dead lover. It's stupid and so goddamn easy that if he knew this is all it took to eliminate the threat Steve and his pals pose, he would've done it ages ago when he first showed up on their radar.  
  
Still. Some remnant of a feeling deep, deep in his bones yells for him to do the exact opposite of what Steve suggests. The man has no way of knowing if the Soldier will simply knock him out or hit him hard enough to snap his neck. He could do it, with the arm. Super-soldiers are still human, after all.  
  
That's the thing. Steve's trusting him, and if that isn't a complete mindfuck, he doesn't know what is. It's ignorant and irresponsible and somehow, so intimately familiar it brings him pause.  
  
He's aware he has been staring at the man with an expression that's half incredulous and half like he's staring down a crazy person. Is this how Steve treats all of the criminals he apprehends, or just ones he has former connections to?  
  
Whatever questions he has lined up will have to wait, because he can hear someone coming, too. His head cocks to the side for a fraction of a second before he's striding forward and swinging with his left.  
  
He's gone long before Steve has a chance to wake.

  
When Steve does wake it’s in the medbay with Natasha at his elbow, eyes calculated. It’s only when he sees the cowl in her hands that he realizes he forgot to put it back on before Bucky hit him.  
  
They stare silently at each other, and seeming to understand she’s not going to get anything from him she leaves. He thinks he lost some of her trust, if he ever had it.  
  
He checks his pocket, face hot and aching, and spends the next eight hours giving debrief and statements and arguing his way out of the med bay despite the broken cheekbone and blind right eye. It’ll heal.

  
  
Eventually he ends up at a park, hoodie up over his ballcap and shoulders slouched in the way Natasha showed him makes him look smaller. He eats his hotdog and watches the people through too large sunglasses, waiting. Hoping.  
  
Eventually a child wanders up to Steve, all wide-eyed innocence as the kid - only about ten years old, by the looks of it - parks himself right in front of Steve's bench.  
  
"Uh, mister?" The boy asks, looking supremely uninterested in the proceedings, like this is the most boring thing he's ever been enlisted to do.

Steve immediately assumes he’s been made and plasters on his big Cap grin. “Yes?”  
  
The kid shoves a hand into his pocket and retrieves a paper slip, handing it to him. "A dude told me to give this to you."On the paper is an address written in messy scrawl, the location being a coffee shop not too far from the park.The kid looks impatient, huffing before he follows with, "He said you owe me twenty bucks." It was ten, but the guy's not going to know that.  
  
Steve’s smile grows genuine when he realizes what’s actually going on, and he pulls out his wallet. “I’ll do you one better. Take this card with you to one of the Maria Stark shelters and you’ll get set up with a nice meal and some cool stuff.”  
  
He hands the kid two twenties and his card, stopping to scribble a quick signature on the back so that the staff know it’s legit. He knows that if the kid wants to be on the streets he ain’t gonna stop, but Steve’s got an arrangement with all of Stark’s shelters that if he sends anyone that way—usually veterans— they get front of the line help and funds pulled from Steve’s personal account.

At first the kid stiffens up like he's going to protest - I don't need no charity, mister, - but his eyes grow wide when he sees the money and he hovers in place before he plucks the offerings from Steve's hand and practically buzzes away in excitement after thanking him. He has manners, Rose, see? He can't wait to tell his sister.

He ruffles the kids hair in giddy excitement and hops up, stretching like he’s gonna go for a jog. He’s gotta lose some of this nervous energy or his big body’s gonna knock over everyone on his way to the address.  
  
Steve does a couple of lazy laps around the park before heading into the shop, making a point not to look around for Bucky. He orders himself a water and a sandwich and something extra sugary for Bucky he assumes he won’t drink.  
  
Steve sits in the back at a little intimate table with a loveseat for a chair, feeling sly and picking excitedly at his sandwich. The hood is down since he’s inside, glasses in his pocket, and even though he knows it’s normal these days he can’t bring himself to wear his hat indoors. It’s just impolite.  
  
About fifteen minutes after Steve settles in, the Soldier ambles in from a side entrance, sweeping his eyes over the place once before he orders and makes a beeline for the back. The table Steve chose is a nice surprise, tucked securely away with nice sight lines. It's something he would choose, himself, and that's an uneasy revelation he doesn't know where to put.  
  
He takes a seat in the chair opposite Steve, up against the wall, and wonders if Steve left that particular seat to him on purpose.  
  
"You look like shit."  
  
Steve grins even though it pulls at the healing bone uncomfortably.  
  
“This? Just a love tap.”  
  
Bucky’s a little blurry in his vision, but he can’t help but feel that he’s a little more at ease than he was in the ally. Not being actively pursued suits him.  
  
He has an urge to say, 'No, I meant in general,' but he curbs the thought because he has more important things to say. His order is delivered by a sweet-looking waitress and he takes a pull from the cup, watching Steve the whole time with dark eyes. Eventually, he leans forward and sets both his forearms on the table. The left is covered by a glove and his sleeve for public wear. He studies Steve, and then says, "What do you want from me?" Because there's no way Steve's done all this without some expectation.  
  
"Want me to carry out a hit? Intelligence?" He pauses, eyeing Steve up, a predatory grin curling at his lips. "Do you want to fuck, is that it? Have your way with me, get your fill?"  
  
Despite Bucky’s insinuations of ill will, Steve merely gives him a dopey grin.  
  
“I wanna lotta things,” he admits, setting his chin on his hands.  
  
“I wanna fuck you, yeah, but only if it’s what you want. I wanna hurt the people who took you. I wanna know everything that you want and I wanna do my damndest to help it come true.”  
  
He takes a drink from his own straw, expression pleased.  
  
The Soldier snorts and shakes his head, marveling over how lost the man is for someone who's not even there anymore. Well. It could be worse. It could be Rumlow.  
  
"Lofty aspirations, Captain."  
  
They stare at each other for a while before he growls out, low, "I'm not him. Assuming so was your first mistake." His gaze purposely drifts down Steve's body, then back up. "I almost feel bad for the fucker, leaving all this behind."  
  
The grin widens, all sharp eyes and teeth. "I won't make that mistake. So you better be damn sure this is what you want."  
  
He's confident in his analysis that Barnes, Buchanan J never acted like this. Not so blatantly rude in this regard. There's a point to be made, however, and if Steve is stubborn enough to cling to someone so outwardly different than the person he knew, the Soldier's content with setting the bar low to begin with.  
  
“I think you’re full of shit,” Steve says easily. “But yeah. I’m with you, pal. What’s that mean for you?”

The Soldier shrugs, unfazed. "Takes one to know one, doesn't it?"  
  
This Bucky is a little sharper and more stiff than the easy cadence from their boyhood, more like Bucky in the war. It’s both familiar and unfamiliar to Steve.  
  
He takes a moment to reflect on Steve's question. What it could mean is for the Soldier to have an asset ally on the inside, warning him when Steve's team starts closing in, and giving him a head start. It could mean that the Soldier could stop looking over his shoulder all the time - likely story, pal. It could mean that he could coordinate his attacks better, it could mean coming home to something other than an empty apartment, it could mean spending his nights with someone who knows what he is, monster and all, and yet doesn't care.  
  
He shifts his gaze and picks up Steve's coffee, taking a sip. "It could mean a lot of things." He responds vaguely, making a face. "You drink this shit?"  
  
Steve’s face goes through a series of expressions before settling on amused.  
  
“Nope. You did, though.”  
  
He spins the cup to reveal the name _Jamie_ in a loose scrawl. He watches Bucky’s reaction.  
  
He glowers at Steve and digs for a pen in his pocket - finding one stashed in a knife holster - then crosses _Jamie_ out and writes _Sanya_ right below. He holds onto the cup for another sip, because as much as he wants to throw in Steve's face that he's not the same person as Steve remembers, the man is right about his choice in beverages.  
  
He stashes the pen back in the soft holster and spins the cup around so Steve can read off what he's written."How long can you be gone before your team gets suspicious?"  
  
More complicated faces and Steve settles on contrite.  
  
“Shoulda known that joke wouldn’t fall. How do I pronounce that?”  
  
"Sahn-yuh." A beat, and then he realizes the mistake in his question.  
  
"I'm not planning on killing you." Yet. "Cross my heart."  
  
Steve bursts into laughter, tracking Bu—Sanya’s train of thought from experience with Nat.  
  
“I don’t think that. Frankly, if you did I’d deserve it anyways.” After letting him fall.  
  
He notices the way Sanya’s trying to hide the way he’s drinking down the sugar contraption and fails at hiding a smile.  
  
“I’m off the clock for the next three days. We’re on a four on-three off rotation. You can stash the body and I’ll be stiff as a board before they even notice I’m gone.”  
  
That's. Interesting. He keeps a calm exterior, but makes a mental note to investigate that further.  
  
"That's anticlimactic. After all this, you'd give up without a fight?"  
  
There’s a physical pain in his chest that shoots down his arms. Steve can’t hide the way his eyes go sad and his smile goes empty. “I stopped fighting when you fell,” he admits, swirling the ice in his cup so he doesn’t have to look at the way that Sanya is likely picking his response apart with his gaze.

It's unfair, really, how he feels bad for the guy when his face does that. The worst part is he's being truthful. The Soldier knows how to tell between a lie and the truth, and Steve's expression is one of the most earnest he's ever seen. That expression might be the death of him.  
  
"You're all sorts of romantic, aren't you?"  
  
He takes a last pull from the cup and rummages around in his jacket, pulling out another address he's written on a piece of paper.  
  
"I have a few.. things to do--" and people to kill "--but if you come to this location in two days, I'll be there."

Steve takes the paper with a renewed smile.  
  
“It’s a date.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for the kudos and comments! Let us know if the POV gets weird and enjoy Sanya going through Rapid Steve Puberty.

Two days later, Sanya comes barrelling through the apartment's door, already stripping his gear that smells of fresh blood and gunpowder. The door had been left open from the last time he was here since there's not much to it except for a ratty old chair, a mattress, and a few boxes of protein bars in the cabinets.

The fact that he gave Steve access and permission to the apartment brings him to a screeching halt when he remembers, but he's already here and heading across town in this condition won't do him any good, so he sets his tac jacket to the side and calls out, "Steve?"

“In the kitchen,” he calls, something indescribable in his voice because there’s a hydra agent with a gun to his head.

Steve’s casually leaning against the counter, body coiled but still. He’s not worried about the gun, but he knows Bucky’ll want to interrogate this man and he’s unsure if he wants the idea of Captain America being an ally known.

Sanya’s metaphorical hackles raise and he stalls undressing to step around the corner, steps light. His right hand drifts to the gun strapped to his thigh, two inches above his new gunshot wound, but that will have to wait.

He steps out into the entrance and immediately pulls a knife and throws it when he catches sight of the gun, aiming for the hand holding it. The knife embeds into the agent's wrist and oof, Sanya bets that'll hurt more than his own injury did. The agent cries out and Steve takes the hint and grabs his wrist, twisting it behind his back and kicking his knees out from under him. He uses the momentum to throw him to Sanya to do with what he wants.

Wrapping his metal arm around the agent's neck tight enough that the agent gasps, he growls out, "How did you find me?"

The agent laughs through his pain. "Hail--" The Soldier turns his hand and grabs the agent's jaw, shoving two metal fingers in and tearing out a molar, to which he throws on the ground.

He's downright deadly like this, his eyes cold and expression neutral as if he's doing nothing but light exercise. "That's not what I asked you." Even his tone is dangerous, a low rumble that screams warning.

His right hand reaches for the agent's injured arm and he twists it with the knife still embedded between severed muscles and bone. Dark red blood drips out of the wound and Sanya calculates how long it will take for him to bleed out. He still has some time.

The agent's hoarse screaming is ear-splitting at this range, so to fix the problem he winds his arm tighter around his throat until he cuts off with a wheeze.

Steve watches the display with only a small amount of discomfort. He wants HYDRA to burn for what they did—some days so badly he could spit— but there will never be a time that some small part of him doesn’t balk at seeing someone in pain.

"There's a medkit in the bathroom. Get that for me, would you?" Sanya directs towards Steve, softening his tone just a fraction.

It’s easy these days to push that down, though, and Steve nods, tucking his hands in his jeans casually.

He notices the myriad of prescriptions in the kit with names like Doris and Benjamin and Naseem and pulls out one that looks familiar. He checks the dosage and brings the whole kit with him, shaking it at Bucky as if the dying agent isn’t in the room.

“Takes a dozen of these for me. Can get you my stuff; works great and doesn’t mess with,” he gestures the bottle of painkillers to his temple. Steve drags a stool over to Bucky for him to sit on and kneels down in front of him to poke at the bullet wound curiously with a finger.

Bucky hisses, but it's less because he's in pain and more of a warning directed at Steve.

The agent's at the point where he's wildly grasping at the metal arm with his free one, but he should know it's no use. They did make him, after all.

He passes out seconds later and Sanya lays him out on the floor, flipping open the medkit and selecting a slightly used tourniquet to tie off the agent's arm right above his wrist. He'll probably lose the hand if he doesn't get to medical attention soon, but Sanya has no plans of letting him survive long enough for that to happen. After he interrogates him, of course.

When the blood stops dripping from the wound he extracts his knife and wipes it clean on his non-injured thigh, pulling holsters off and setting them on the kitchen counter so he can pull his tac pants off. He rips the fabric where the bullet hole is and strips the rest off, moving as if he's used to this type of pain. Leaving himself in his undershirt and briefs, he takes a begrudging seat on the stool and reaches for gauze, pressing a pad to the wound.

"Won't they notice when your supply of horse tranquilizers go missing?"

Steve kicks lightly at the agent with his shoe and satisfied that he’s out turns back to Sanya.

“I’ll just tell them I’m catching up on the seventies,” he says, smacking at Sanya’s hand to take the gauze and alcohol from him. He’s pretty sure he can’t get infections, but that doesn’t mean the bullets weren’t treated with something and alcohol breaks down just about anything.

“If I’m gonna be your bought girl I might as well make myself useful.” His eyes twinkle a little at the joke even as his mouth is tight with worry. “We expect any more nosy Nancy’s?”

"If there were any more agents, they'd be here by now." He takes the tweezers out and goes about extracting the bullet from the meaty part of his thigh, clinical and expressionless.

"This safe house is burned. We should go." He has a duffel bag that he thinks might fit the agent, but the rest will have to be destroyed.

Steve’s heart jumps at the we and Steve does his best to keep his expression neutral the way Natasha’s been teaching him.

“Tell me what you need.” He hands Sanya the clasp for the bandage and takes his hands gently in his, wiping them clean with a gauze pad. He runs his thumb over the grooves of the metal knuckles, making sure he got all of the blood out, focusing intently.

Sanya's gaze follows Steve's, a little thing of a frown appearing as he watches him work so-- so lovingly. He doesn't even view the thing with so much fondness, and it's his own damn arm.

"What are you doing."

“Hmm? Making sure there’s no blood in there. Don’t want it to rust or nothin’.” He’s pleased to have surprised Sanya with something when the man acts like he knows all.

"Seems like you're doing a little more than that." It's strange. Absolutely baffling, but intriguing, also, how Steve is treating him with kindness even after all he's done. He doesn't understand it. He wants to know why. He wants more. He wants.

Steve arches his eyebrows questioningly, still tracing the lines of his metal palm with a fingernail gently. “What do you need me to do?”

He catches Steve's chin between his thumb and index finger, staring deep into his eyes, searching, before he crashes his lips to Steve's. It's the least ideal situation to do this in, he knows, but he has not felt a touch this kind in oh so long.

As soon as he feels like he has his footing Bucky—Sanya— goes and knocks it out from under him again.

He turns his head after a surprised sound and opens his mouth, hand reaching to cup the side of Sanya’s neck, touch gentle. It’s beyond incredible. It’s more than he could have possibly remembered, pulse beating and head dizzy with the sudden onslaught of want.

Sanya kisses like he fights; brutally, a fight for dominance. He kisses like it's the last thing he'll ever do, like this is the only thing he's allowed to have and he has to make it count.

He pulls back and shrinks away, guilty, and makes haste with securing a bandage over his wound. "I have to burn it," he tells Steve, an explanation and an apology rolled in one. Sliding off the stool, he disappears into a room off the kitchen and comes back with lighter fluid and a big bag, kneeling down next to the agent to start fitting him inside.

Steve’s still reeling from the kiss, fingers to his lips with a dopey expression.

“Huh? Oh. Course.” He stands and scratches the back of his head, swiping his lips with his tongue. He imagines he can taste Bucky there. He shakes his head.

“What about this guy?” Between talking to Sanya and talking about hydra his voice seems to drop an octave as if shrugging on his Captain voice physically.

"I take him with me. I can question him at a secure location." It's quite difficult to fit a grown man into a bag, but Sanya has had practice.

He manages it in under thirty seconds, and then he's heaving the bag up and over his flesh shoulder. He grabs the lighter fluid with his metal hand and starts dousing the place, especially where the pools of blood and his tac outfit lay.

He gets a lighter from a drawer and walks out the door, waiting for Steve to follow before he sparks a flame and throws it in, closing the door against the fire.

He hesitates at the steps. "I shouldn't--" but then he's shaking his head and descending.

Steve takes the duffel once they hit the bottom floor and pulls a cap over his head. He stopped shaving since he met up with Bucky and now he’s got a bit of stubble to blur the line of his jaw, too.

“You’re injured,” he explains while he hefts the bag on his shoulder, other hand in his pocket, casual as if it’s filled with clothes and not an unconscious adult man.

He knows what Steve's doing, taking the agent so Sanya can't brush him off. He's both irritated and appreciative, and isn't that strange.

Steve sees Sanya’s hesitation and makes a gamble, placing his hand on his hip and gently pulling him close. He kisses his lips lightly, chaste; soft and pliant to counter the biting, hectic kiss from earlier.

Steve pulls back and watches Sanya, waiting for his decision.

Sanya’s completely blindsided by Steve tugging him forward into a kiss that melts the ice around a very old, very fragile part of himself. He struck with the urge to both push him away and pull him close. And since Steve currently has something he needs, well, there's only one option, isn't there?

"Come on." He whispers, tugging on Steve's hoodie and leading him toward the exit.

The low rasp of Sanya’s voice sends a thrill through him, and he nods emphatically and follows Sanya like the obedient puppy he is.

He’s warming up to Steve faster than expected, and even though he knows it won’t be this easy he’s still thrumming with the knowledge that Sanya’s let him kiss him twice. He’s been allowed to touch him and speak softly to him and now he’s taking Steve to a second safehouse. If it wasn’t for the body on his back he could skip.

They walk several blocks, looping back while Sanya checks for tails. Eventually, they arrive at an old brownstone apartment building, relatively well kept for the neighborhood it's in. Sanya keys in the code to the building and leads Steve inside, trudging up one flight of stairs before he comes to a stop at the first door.

As they climb the steps Steve immediately knows that this isn’t merely a safehouse. This has to be where Bucky’s been living; is exactly the sort of buildings he’d dream of owning when they were boys.

His key turns in the lock and Sanya pushes it open... to immediately go on the defensive at the sound of his tv on. His hand drops, reaching for a gun that isn't there.

Fuck. He left most of his weapons in the safe house.

He bends and pulls a knife out of his boot, entering the apartment with slow steps, then deflating all at once when a cheer of victory cries out from a young voice.

He quickly stores the knife back in its place, then gestures Steve in.

"Frankie?" He calls out, a hand falling on his hip in a very Winnifred Barnes pose. "What'chya doing?"

There's sounds of a crash and a scramble before a skinny ten-year old appears in front of them. He comes to a stop, glancing between the two with widening eyes, before he curses a very enthusiastic, "Holy shit!"

Sanya refuses the urge to drop his head into his hands.

Steve tenses when Sanya does, brows furrowing in confusion at the sight of the boy in front of them.

“Hey, pal,” he says to Sanya faintly, “real quick question. What the fuck?” Sanya ignores him, storming towards the kid who does not seem afraid of him at all. On the contrary, he’s grinning madly as he looks between Sanya and Steve.

Steve just weathers the whirlwind that is this entire situation with wide eyes and mouth in a soft o. Sanya ushers the boy--Frankie-- out of his apartment as the kid frantically gathers up wires and a little black box, ogling Steve the whole way down.

“Is that Hot Park Guy?!” He squeaks, and now that he thinks about it, it is the kid who gave him Sanya’s note. Sanya makes a comically threatening face and shoves Frankie out the door, calling, “Tell your sister to keep better track of you!”

He blinks a few times at Bucky and sets the duffel down.

“They live downstairs,” he reasons, and then a shit-eating grin covers his face.

Sanya prepares for whatever bullshit Seve is about to go on, teeth grinding in irritation, plates shifting noisily.

“Bucky. Sanya. Heyyyy,” he sing-songs, reaching for him playfully. “Big tough angry assassin. Best sniper on this planet. Still loves strays and candy.”

He backs him against the wall, smug expression as he noses into his neck, hands at his waist.

Sanya keeps his eyes heavenward for a few moments. He needs a lot of strength.

"I will pinch you with my metal arm," he threatens, but lets himself be led, enjoying the feel of Steve's warm hands through his shirt much more than he should.

His eyes take on a sharp quality all of a sudden and he turns to meet Steve's eyes, deadly serious. "If you exploit that information I will kill you painfully. Slowly. Are we clear?"

Steve just keeps grinning and replies, “You think I’m “hot””. He says the word awkwardly like the old man he is, mimicking the term Frankie used, and kisses Sanya’s jaw slowly.

When the duffel moves he could have stomped it right then and there.

"I'm serious." He reaches up and pushes against Steve's chest with his metal hand to get his attention. "They're off-limits. Understand?" They're something in his life he won't let get taken away from him, not ever. One pure part of his life that he won't ever let Hydra touch.

Speaking of, he leans past Steve and gives the bag a good kick, satisfied by the wheeze that follows.

“Hey,” Steve protests, voice low as he pulls Sanya back to look at him. “I would never.” He knows that he doesn’t have a right to be offended, but it still doesn’t feel great knowing that he thinks Steve would ever hurt or take advantage of kids.

“This is a lot for you. Do you need me to leave?” It kills him to offer it, but he doesn’t want to push him so soon that it sours him from seeing Steve again.

He can be patient. Probably.

He can see it in Steve's face, his honesty, and how much he hates being noble about offering to leave. It's the very fact that he is offering that causes him to reach up for Steve, pulling him forward so that he's pushed against the wall by Steve's body mass.

"No. But it's nice to have a choice."

Steve crowds him greedily and runs his hands along Sanya’s sides, petting him heavily.

“Always. You’re always in charge with us. Got it?”

Us. It's not something he thought he could have, not in his wildest imaginings.

There's still a possibility this is a freakishly vivid dream, or some sort of hallucination, but god, for the first time in years, feelings are awakening in him that he thought were long dead. And his body. His body reacting to Steve is an interesting revelation, too.

He loops his arms around Steve's neck and leans in, pressing against him from head to toe. "Say it again."

Oh. Oh. He can feel all of Bucky when he’s pressed against Steve like this, and he shoves him more firmly against the wall, experimentally pressing in with a thigh.

His eyes are dark and he leans down so that his lips are right against Sanya’s ear.

“You’re. In. Charge. With. Us.”

He’s not sure what about the statement got to Sanya, but he’s happy to oblige, kissing open and wet down his neck, thumbs sliding along the line of his hip bones beneath his waistband.

The groan he releases at being firmly tucked between a wall and a hard place twists into a moan as he lets his head fall back, exposing the column of his throat, his eyelashes fluttering against his cheekbones.

He parts his lips and then wets them, tracking Steve's movements purely based on touch, a trail of heat following wherever Steve's skin touches Sanya's. It's delicious and arousing and so damn good and he needs more.

"Fuck-- fuck. Fuck me."

“Christ— yes, yes,” he agrees, hiking Sanya’s legs up and taking his weight as he rolls their erections together through their pants.

“Thought you were teasing in the cafe—want you so bad, Bucky—“ and he realizes the slip up immediately, lips wet and hot on Sanya’s neck. Sanya's eyes pop open and he stills, his breathing harsh with no other sound to cancel it out.

It takes him a moment to think beyond fuckyesmoreplease, but when he does he tilts his head down and says, "You think I'm him." There's no accusation in his voice. It's neutral, calculated.

Steve drops Sanya’s legs with a sigh at the friction, moving to cup his face with his hands.

“Sanya. Honey. You’re whoever you want to be.” He tilts Sanya’s face up so that he has to look into those blank, pale eyes.

“I can’t— look, I can’t dismiss you. I won’t do that. But, Sanya or Bucky or-or goddamn Patricia, whatever identity you want to go by, you’re still my best guy.”

He’s speaking quickly, frantic, worried he’s fucked it up already, eyes searching.  
“Whoever you are, I wanna be there. Can you be ok with that?”

"I am done changing myself to please other people." There's a hint of desperation in his tone but he'll never admit to it. "They cut him out and put me in. You get that? Everything you loved about him was beaten out of me and I can't--" he stops, pulling his hands away from Steve to run them through his sweat-soaked battle hair. "I can't pretend that I'm him. I'm not."

It hurts to hear. Steve struggles with the urge to deny it, to grab him and shout no, you’re Bucky, I know you! That’s not what he needs, though. If Steve wants to be allowed to stick around he’s gotta meet him where he’s at.

“Ok,” Steve says, soothing. He runs his hands in the same comforting slide along Sanya’s ribs. “I can’t say I get it, but I hear you. You’re you, and whoever you are, it’s a person that I love.”

He feels like he’s got a big and clumsy tongue and he gives up on talking in favor of kissing, desperately getting back to something they seem to agree on.

Sanya slides his arms around Steve's midsection and pulls him close, exhaling the breath of air he's been holding. They kiss like that for a while until they're both flushed and panting, desire making itself known.

Sanya pulls back when a fresh wave of coppery tang hits him, reluctantly sliding away from Steve in order to catch a glimpse of the bag. A small but steadily growing pool of blood is claiming territory on his floor, and Sanya curses when he realizes what's happened. The agent must have pulled the tourniquet.

He crosses the distance and rips open the zipper but it's no use. The agent's eyes are lifeless, glassy, clothes soiled with blood from his still-dripping wound.

“Ah, shit!” Steve curses, rushing for the bathroom to grab all of the towels he can find. He wraps the corpses arm with one to contain the bleeding and throws the rest on the wood floor, aiming to soak it up before it stains.

“You gotta plan for that?” He asks him, furiously scrubbing, fingers orange from blood.

Sanya heads for the chemicals, bringing back two gallon bottles of his own special mix.

"Yes," he admits, irritated that he let himself get distracted. That's not what he does, who he is. It's possible he underestimated his response to Steve, and that's not something he does twice.

"I'll take care of it." He shoves a hand inside the bag, patting down the agent until he produces a thin smartphone, to which he messes with before pocketing. Standing up, he heaves the bag and wipes the underside for blood, shoes squelching as he steps out of the pool and pulls them off.

"I'll be back." He disappears out the door and reappears no less than two hours later, dirt smeared on his cheeks and clothes. When Sanya returns he finds Steve on the couch next to Frankie, controller in his hand from some sort of game station. They’re playing a sports game and Steve’s face is focused, huge hands fumbling the device in his hands.

Steve’s already cleaned the stain and laundered the towels with Bucky’s concoction, stashing them back where they belong. He’s stripped his clothes and traded for some of Sanya’s, too tight on his shoulders and too loose around his hips.

“I thought you said you like baseball,” Frankie teases, crowing a victory as Steve tosses the controller to the side and throws his hands at the screen.

“I do! This ain’t baseball, pal! This is just—just—“

“Getting your ass handed to you by a kid,” Frankie crows, toothy grin wavering when he sees Sanya stomp in.

“I’ll pick this up later,” he says quickly, scurrying around Sanya and down the stairs, a thunderous storm of footfalls before a door slams.

Sanya watches Frankie go and then turns to Steve, amusement clouding his expression. "What was that all about?" He takes a look at the screen and then Steve's abandoned controller, a smirk tugging at his lips. "Not a fan?"

“It’s not baseball,” he grouches, turning off the tv and standing. He appraises Sanya and says casually, “you know, instead of doing whatever you just did, you can turn agents you find into SHIELD.”

His posture changes all at once, face falling carefully neutral, his body tensing into an unnaturally still position. Cold eyes watch Steve, not a flicker of emotion in those blue depths.

"No."

Steve watches the change with dread settling in his gut but presses on, emboldened by the last few hours.

“Why not?”

"No," he repeats, his tone deepening in anger or-- or maybe fear.

The plates on his metal arm shift and whir, locking into a reinforced combat mode.

If Sanya could, he would feel utterly stupid for trusting-- for letting the parts of him that are still Bucky dictate how easily he's let Steve in. He would if this was Sanya, but it's not. Steve's facing the Soldier, and the Soldier has no use for distracting thoughts or guilt.

“No isn’t an explanation. My team is good people just trying to do the same as you. We’re on the same side, Sanya.”

If he notices the change in Sanya’s demeanor he doesn’t acknowledge it, merely running his fingers through his hair in frustration.

“Do you even gotta reason not to work with us?”

He doesn't answer for what seems like hours, just stares, unblinking. If his heart wasn't beating and he wasn't taking even, measured breaths, it would be easy to mistake him as lifeless.

Eventually, he grounds out, "Yes," his jaw clicking.

Then, his metal arm points at the door. "Leave."

The stillness facilitates the uneasiness growing inside of Steve and he stands warily when Sanya replies, eyebrows shooting up.

“What? Bu-Sanya, hold on. I just asked you a question, I don’t understand.”

Sanya’s gaze sharpens, although his expression doesn't change in the least. His arm slowly retracts, hand twisting to point a finger at his own chest. "We are in control." He parrots, Steve's promise from earlier.

He points at Steve, and then the door. "Leave."

Steve tucks away the ‘we’ to examine and breathes deep through his nose, reining in his temper. He knew this would happen, he reminds himself. He nods, expression shuttered, and approaches Sanya. He doesn’t touch him or move in for a kiss, just appraises him before moving to pin his address into the refrigerator under a magnet.

“Fair’s fair,” he mutters even though he knows Buck’ll never visit him.

Is impossible not to glance over his shoulder once at Sanya, waiting to see— but no, there’s that stony expression, body stuff.

The Soldier stares right back, all the way until he's out of sight, and when the door slams Sanya flinches and his posture deflates.

Steve shuts the door a little to hard and stomps down the stairs with a sour expression, ducking his head when a girl in her late teens coming through the building entrance gives him a startled stare.

Steve shoulders his way past her, feeling rude and not caring, and immediately takes off on a furious jog towards home. He’s not stupid enough to try and book it or to even jog the whole way, but for now he just needs to move.

Heading for the bathroom, Sanya strips his clothes and steps under the freezing spray, head hung as the water beats down on his back.

He loses time and when he finally steps out, body shivering from the cold, he finds the sun's set.

He dries off methodically and heads for the bedroom, changing into sweats and a long-sleeved tee, then immediately heads for the closet and pulls the doors open. Two boxes come down from the first shelf. One is filled with notebooks of several colors, the other holding loose papers and files stamped with either HYDRA or SHIELD's logo in the corner. His arm contracts, plates shifting in protest at the sight.

Time to get back to work.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the late update! This one's extra long because we couldn't find a good spot to end it. See you on Wednesday!

At seven the next morning, an envelope is slipped in with the rest of Steve's daily mail. Inside, there is one slip of paper taped to a folded SHIELD personnel file, hand-written notes in Sanya's loose scrawl on the side depicting each name as either 'Innocent' or 'HYDRA'. Some of the names marked as HYDRA are already dead.

The slip of paper on the front reads; 'APARTMENT BUGGED. NOT SAFE.' in the same handwriting.

The grin that graces Steve’s face at envelope is quickly replaced with a frown, and he takes the envelope to sit at his kitchen table, still in sweats and a tee. He drinks his coffee as he reads, movement mechanical, before finally slamming down the papers and holding his head in his hands. 

That’s a pretty compelling reason not to come in to SHIELD. 

Steve feels sick and rushes to his bathroom, retching noisily, and thinks numbly that at least the bugs picked it up so that when he calls in to tell them he won’t be coming in they’ll believe him. 

It’s only a few minutes to call the operator and get Rumlow assigned to his strike shift, Natasha’s number pulled up on his phone as his thumb hovers over it. He toggles back and forth between her and Sam before shutting off his phone and slamming it beneath his boot. “Ah, beans,” he says for the mics.

Steve dresses in jeans and a too large flannel he doesn’t tuck in, grateful he’d been lazy about shaving. He cleans the lenses on a pair of reading glasses Stark got him as a joke and slips them in his pocket, covering the flannel with his leather coat. 

He pockets a wool cap and dons the ballcap, looking as if he does anytime he plans to leave for a quick errand. 

Steve mimics the winding trek Sanya’d taken him on last time from memory, slipping into a subway bathroom to lose his coat and swap the ballcap for the knit hat halfway through. He slips on the glasses and back out into the crowd. 

Steve hesitates outside of the building, biting at his lip nervously. Last time he’d been here Sanya’d shut down completely. How is he even sure he’s still welcome?

The not knowing is terrifying, Sanya finds. Most of the night and all morning he spent curled into his bedroom corner, flinching at every sound, a modified assault rifle tucked into his hands.

As much as the Bucky inside him insists, he doesn't know if Steve is Hydra or not. Bucky is empathically against the idea, but Sanya and the Soldier outweigh him by most. For all Sanya knows, he could have brought a sleeper into his life. Into his home. Into the kids' home.

He grinds his metal palm into his face and breathes, the other gripping the pistol stock of his weapon, until a series of knocks in the tune to shave and a haircut and Steve’s left fidgeting outside of Sanya’s door, scratching at his small beard nervously.

Sanya takes a steadying breath and rises, keeping the rifle stock tucked into his elbow as he ventures outside the relative safety of his bedroom and into the foyer of the apartment.

He checks the peep, of course he does, before unbolting the numerous locks. Pulling the door open an inch, he backs away and raises the rifle, anxious but prepared. Again Sanya has surprised him, and Steve raises his palms placatingly as he follows him in.

“I didn’t know,” he says, looking wrecked about it. He's not meeting Steve's eyes. He's purposefully avoiding them, actually. His head cocks, listening to the cadence of his voice -- and all other activity on the floor -- before he nods, a curt thing, and lowers the rifle.

"Not many do." He responds, his throat feeling and sounding like sandpaper.

“You did,” Steve says, realization dawning. “You’ve known the whole time. Months I’ve been looking for you. Years I’ve been working for HYDRA thinking I was working for good!” His voice raises and he tears off the hat and the glasses, makes Sanya look at him. 

“You knew and you didn’t tell me. If I didn’t corner you would you ever have?” 

Sanya shrinks back, folding in on himself, not at all the picture of calm confidence he was three days ago.The rifle lowers even more, his hold white-knuckled on the grip, but he's not defending himself-- just accepting Steve's anger. The Soldier wants to come out, wants to stand up and fight and protect them, but Sanya keeps his hold, refusing.

"I couldn't."

The sight of Sanya crumbling makes Steve want to hold him and make sure he’s ok, but his anger has gone too far and he pushes.   
“Couldn’t? Or wouldn’t?” Bucky would be right back in his face, finger on his chest and expression thunderous.

Sanya thinks about the time, his slow crawl out of the dark hole they'd kept him in. Even years after escaping, it was like he had never left. That HYDRA would always have a hold on him, on his body, on his mind, on its' asset.

He thinks about the months before moving here, to this apartment, how two little kids in the dead of winter had tripped right over his body, one that wasn't dead but wishing to be so. He thinks about how long it took for his recovery to reach a point where he actually felt alive again instead of a tool, a weapon; inhuman.

He sucks in a breath, jaw clicking and words raspy. "Both."

His body shudders, a big shake that just keeps on going. "I wasn't-- I wasn't right." 

As angry as he was it’s suddenly gone at the sight of Sanya’s eyes, dead and afraid. Steve takes in the sight of Sanya pulling in to himself, body language fearful instead of confrontational. Steve deflates and approaches Sanya with his palms out, voice soft. 

“No, honey, don’t do that,” Steve grips Sanya’s shoulders lightly, sliding his palms up and down his arms to try and soothe the shaking. “I shouldn’t have shouted.” 

Sanya flinches at the sight of Steve approaching, expecting the worst, then relaxes all at once when Steve's hands brush over his shoulders, comforting instead of punishing. Leaning forward into Steve's touch, his body gives another shake before seeking out the heat that Steve provides. He shoves his face into Steve's chest and his body follows, settling all of his weight against Steve in a slump like an over-affectionate Rottweiler.

Steve takes his weight and presses his lips against Sanya’s temple, then behind his ear, and down his neck. 

“M’sorry for shouting,” he breathes against his neck, pulling back to look him in the eyes, searching, bodies flush together.

 _See?_ Bucky says. _See?_

Sanya does see. Steve is too kind, too good to intentionally work for HYDRA. The Soldier reminds him that a person doesn't have to be aware or compliant to do so, but he ignores it because Steve is here and he's not mad at him. He snakes his arms around Steve's waist and turns his head, resting his cheek on Steve's pec. It's nice. Steve's warm, warmer than bed and the heater and the sunny area he lays in when going outside is too much to handle.

"Okay."

Steve cups Sanya’s jaw and tilts his chin up, his own jaw working as he debates saying something. No, it can wait. He decides to kiss him instead, lips soft and gentle, hesitant in case this isn’t something that Sanya wants.

His hands bunch the back of Steve's shirt, clinging, soaking up anything and everything Steve will give him.

He hears a choked little noise and it takes a moment to realize that it came from him; a testament to how much Steve's gentle touches get to him. He gets his feet under him and raises up to meet Steve's lips better, sighing into the kiss as if it's all he's wanted.

Steve’s helpless against the sounds Bucky makes, deepening the kiss and sliding his tongue between Bucky’s lips, backing him against the wall in a mirror of their last kiss. It’s so familiar and yet not, Sanya’s touches more gentle and reserved that Bucky’s, like he’s unsure of what he’s allowed to do. Steve pulls back so that their lips are only barely touched and looks down his lashes at him. 

“You can tell me to stop,” he tells him softly, lips brushing as he speaks.

He leans back against the wall and pulls Steve with him, unwilling to leave just an inch of space between them. Chasing after the electric brushes of Steve's lips, he kisses him a second time before pulling back to meet his eyes. His own are dilated, grey oceans flecked with darker blue   
specks. 

"Don't. Please." To emphasize his point he frees one of his hands, reaching up to cup Steve's jaw just as he had done, then leans in and presses their lips back together.

It’s a bad idea. Steve knows it’s a bad idea. Sanya looks shellshocked, exhausted, like he hasn’t slept since Steve left. There’s something fragile about him and Steve’s taking advantage. 

But. It’s _Bucky._

Steve dips back down to kiss him deep and hungry, stomach swooping and warmth building between his legs almost instantly. The energy in the room shifts and he slides his thigh between Sanya’s and rubs upwards, fingers trailing along his neck to bury in the thick hair at the base of his neck.

Sanya moans at the sudden pressure and sparks of pleasure between his legs, grinding down on Steve's thigh urgently. For once everyone in his head is quiet, his entire attention on Steve's body pressed up against his, Steve's warmth, Steve's tongue in his mouth-- he had forgotten that that could be erotic. That any of this could, really. His metal hand slips down to palm at Steve's dick, the action familiar even if he doesn't remember how so.

“Ah-Sanya—“ Steve gasps, rocking into his hand urgently. “Want you. Please.” 

Sanya responds by kissing Steve a little fiercer, gaining courage as Steve tips them back against the couch. He might not remember everything but he remembers how this goes, remembers a sweet glide and hushed moans. He spreads his legs on either side of Steve, bearing weight on his knees as he meets Steve's grinding with his own - a feeling so good he chases it while his hands explore. He reaches under Steve's shirt and maps out his body with hands both flesh and metal, the latter cool against flushed skin.

"Yeah, yes." He moans, parting from kissing Steve hungrily to slide his sweats off, naked underneath. He keeps his own shirt on but tugs at Steve's, needing to see him. 

Steve helps Sanya get his shirt off and undoes the button of his jeans, shoving them and his underwear down and moaning loudly when their cocks bump together. He can’t stop staring at Bucky’s cock, red tipped and heavy, and he licks his lips and then his hand, reaching down to grip them both and squeeze. 

Sanya’s hands brush against his nipples where they’re pebbled, one hand cold and one hot, and Steve gasps and jerks his hips.

Thrusting up into the warm heat of Steve's hand, Sanya’s eyes practically roll back in his head at the combined sensations of Steve's cock and his hand sliding against his own. It's so good it leaves him breathless, his entire attention focused on _moremoremore._

He nuzzles Steve's neck, pressing wet kisses down the side. "Yeah, you like that?" He breathes, his voice thick with arousal. He runs both thumbs over Steve's nipples again before tugging lightly, listening for his response. Steve’s hips stutter again, neck arching to give him more room against his neck. 

“Yes-Yes, Christ, M’gonna,” he pants, chest heaving as he works his hands over them, chasing the building pleasure between his legs as it tightens at the base of his cock.

"Go on, then," he tells him, choosing a nice place to sink his teeth into. His own orgasm is climbing, a euphoria he can feel all the way down to his bones. It's great and too much and not nearly enough. His metal hand keeps on playing with Steve's left nipple, pinching and twisting and then smoothing out the burn with his palm, but his right drops to join Steve's, pumping in synch.

“Fff—ahh!” Steve cries out, coming in hot, wet pulses over their hands, hips working frantically and nearly jostling Bucky off of him.   
The sound of Steve's orgasm brings him to his own, a nearly soundless thing except for the way his body locks up with tension, mouth dropping open in a silent scream. He pants at Steve's shoulder, bearing down with his weight to stay with Steve instead of being bucked off - heh, a voice laughs in his head - but he continues pumping his hand all the same, delighting in the blissful sting of oversensitivity.

"That all you got?" He taunts, only slowing down if Steve tells him to.

Steve’s chest heaves in deep, gasping breaths, and he scoffs a laugh breathlessly. 

“That a challenge?” He responds, flipping them and sliding between Bucky’s legs, trailing open mouthed kisses that are more just hot breath and tongue along the inside of his thigh, left hand pressed flat against the other to hold his legs open. 

His first instinct is to fight, to throw Steve off, but he doesn't, letting him -- trusting him not to hurt him.

He huffs a breath, a smirk curling at his lips, aching for Steve to move just a little to the left. "You tell me."

Steve hums low and licks against his hole, massaging the muscle of Sanya’s thigh with his hand. He blows a puff of air at it and nuzzles at Sanya’s balls, watching the way he goes from semi to full stiffness. Sanya gasps and arches, both trying to press against him for more and away. 

"What-- what is--" he stops, struggling to explain. "I don't remember this."

Steve stops and glances up at him. “That’s cause you were always weird about it. Thought me doin’ this was treatin’ you like a dame, as if fucking You was different.” Steve presses the flat of his tongue against Sanya’s hole, careful to hold his legs so he doesn’t clench up. He licks and kisses at him for a while before he feels him start to relax and continues, “used to love this. Go wild for my tongue in you; only ever’d lemme do it when you were too drunk to remember, though.” Before his voice would have been sour explaining this, but now it’s just matter of fact.

It's a strange feeling, having someone's tongue against his hole, but it's not unpleasant. Quite the opposite, actually. He does tense a few times, adjusting to the sensation, before relaxing and letting himself exist in the feeling.

"We-- we fucked?" He asks, a question he can never get an answer for from Bucky. It's exciting, the prospect of recovering the memories HYDRA took from him. Even if he doesn't remember, Steve does, and maybe he'll tell him if Sanya asks.

Steve freezes. 

“You don’t remember?”

He immediately shuts his mouth with a click as his teeth clack together, shifting his gaze away. He supposes Steve wouldn't know - he hasn't told him anything.

Slowly, calmy, he pulls himself into a sitting position. "No." His gaze flickers over to Steve before bouncing away. "I-- we were held captive by Hydra for sixty years." That's the easiest way to describe it. "They wiped a lot of my memories. When I said they cut Bucky out, I-- I was being literal."

Steve wipes his mouth crassly and crawls over Sanya, between his legs, bracing his hands on the arm of the couch on either side of his head. 

“I guess I wasn’t listening,” he acknowledges softly, brows furrowed. “I’m sorry—I assumed you— _Bucky_ — wanted this.” 

The guilt is etched onto his face where they’re nose to nose and Steve leans back a little to give him some space, leaning back on his knees and feeling foolish when his cock brushes against Sanya’s skin and twitches instinctively.

"Wanted what?" A crinkle appears between his brows. He's confused, for a few reasons. For one, Steve looks like he did something terrible. His mind races with possibilities aided by the other two inhabitants in his head but he tunes out as best he can.

"I want you." He clarifies, because Steve has to know that. His metal hand gently touches Steve's cheek, hesitant, before cupping his jaw.

Steve looks into Sanya’s eyes, so much like Bucky’s, and finally lets the realization he’s been denying settle. Those eyes belong to Sanya. Whatever remnants of Bucky are just that; remnants. He can’t help when his eyes fill with tears and he closes them, feeling tears glide down his cheeks and onto Sanya’s palm. 

“Do you? Or do you think you need to because Bucky did?” 

His voice cracks at the past tense and his shoulders give a great shudder. 

Sanya immediately wants to ease Steve's pain and flounders with the understanding that he can't.

Leaning towards him, he gently presses a chaste kiss to Steve's lips, then wipes his tears away with his metal hand. "I do. Of course I do. I don't--" he takes a breath, the words painful to admit. "I don't do anything I don't want to, anymore." Steve blinks away his tears and takes a few deep breaths to steady himself. After a few minutes he grabs Bucky’s— _Sanya’s_ —hand where it’s pressed against his face and kisses the palm. 

“Do you know me?”

It's uncomfortable to look at Steve when he answers, but for the sake of trying he pushes through it and keeps his gaze steady.

"Somewhat. I have dreams." Dreams of big Steve, little Steve, Steve with graphite stains on his hands, Steve with bruises blooming on his face. Stubborn Steve, Angry Steve, Steve laughing and happy.

"It comes back sometimes. Little pieces, but not all."

It’s not a no. Steve takes solace in that as much as he can; aside from Peggy, whose memories are mostly gone, Sanya’s the only one left who knows him. The determination in Sanya’s gaze pushes Steve forward, sliding their lips together awkwardly, unsure now that his perception of them has changed.  
Sanya kisses him as soundly as earlier, the full force of his confidence backing his kiss. He wants Steve to know that it's okay, that he hasn't done anything wrong. Seeing Steve look so guilty is a punch to the gut. 

Steve pulls back and searches Sanya’s eyes again, trying to contain his tumultuous emotions when he asks, “you say ‘we’ sometimes. Is he...”

"Sometimes. If it's important, sometimes he's there." He brushes Steve's hair back with his fingers, trailing along his temple. "When I got out--" and that's a loaded subject "--it took a long time for him to piece himself together. For all of us. When we had enough of our memories, we just seemed to.. split." It wasn't a conscious choice, but it was easier that way rather than being a bunch of broken parts trapped in one soul. 

Steve soundly traps down any way he wants to feel about that that, moving instead to kiss Sanya back, hard. 

“You didn’t know to come to me for help,” he reasons, one of his burning questions finally being answered. “Oh, honey. I’m so sorry you had to do this alone.” He presses him back down against the couch and kisses him soundly, emotionally, fingers running through his hair and down his neck and over his shoulders.

Sanya falls back easily, fingers threading in his hair and holding him there, a gentle weight. He gives as good as he gets, releasing all of his fear, his anger, his hope and his energy into the kiss, appreciative that even though he was alone before, Steve's here now. He breaks the kiss to breathe out, "I like that, you touching me," then pulls Steve back in, wrapping both legs around his hips while they kiss.

Steve will think about Bucky later. He’ll mourn him or remember him or hope for him later. Right now he has a part of Bucky that he’s sure started to form during the war, and in that way Sanya’s not so unfamiliar.

“That so,” Steve teases, rolling his hips lazily against Sanya’s ass, head of his cock just sliding in and out of his entrance. He keeps up just that slow, gentle press, never pushing in out of worry of hurting him, kissing him deep and soundly. Sanya gasps at the feeling, his hole fluttering around Steve's cockhead. He shifts his hips and presses back against Steve, desiring more.

Kissing him in between words, a smile pulls at Sanya’s lips. "If you keep--" Kiss. "--teasing me--" he nips at Steve's lip, laving his tongue over it. "--I might be inclined to tease you right back."

Steve groans low with every word and presses in more firmly with his hips, hyper focused on the sweet heat of Sanya enveloping him. He pulls out and continues his shallow thrusting, each roll of his hips pushing in further until he’s moaning against Sanya’s lips, sliding flush inside of him. 

“Oh, oh god, Sanya,” he moans, shoving his tongue in his mouth and sucking on Sanya’s as he pulls out slowly and presses back in with a snap.

It's addicting, the feeling of Steve inside of him. Every thrust lights up electricity inside of him, beautiful little shocks that go right to his dick. When Steve slides home Sanya moans with him, locking his feet around Steve's back for a better angle. He's in blissful heaven, language lost to his arousal-hazy brain. All he knows is Steve, warm and touching him, Steve's cock sliding out of him torturously slow, and the pleasure raising him higher, higher.

"Fuck!" He whimpers when he shifts his hips and pleasure shoots straight up his spine. His mind is singularly focused on Steve inside of him, every sensation amplified tenfold.

Steve’s focusing all his energy on keeping pace and not just hammering home inside of him, aware that this might be the first time Sanya remembers sex. The thought is exhilarating and he buries his face against Sanya’s sweaty neck, leaving at his Adam’s apple with his tongue.

He knows where Sanya’s prostate is, of course, and when he knows he’s not going to last much longer he finds it and fucks it, gasping with every sharp sound Sanya makes in response. He’s fucking him hard enough the couch is moving against the floor and his fingers nearly tear the upholstery.

"Steve. Steve. Steve!" Sanya keens, his name a prayer on his lips. He didn't know he could feel this much pleasure, after decades of so much pain. The fact that Steve is the one showing him is a delightful thing. The fact that he trusts Steve enough to let him makes it so much better. He feels happy. He feels safe.

"I can't-- I'm gonna--" but that's all the warning Steve gets because in the next second he's coming hard, clenching around Steve as his back arches off of the couch. Steve chases his own orgasm and coming moments after Sanya, his cries still echoing. He pumps until they’re well done and spent before lowering Sanya’s hips to the couch, forehead against his collarbone and panting breath ghosting across his chest.

It takes a while for him to get his breathing under control, and even longer for him to open his eyes. When he does, he makes eye contact with Steve before dissolving into a bout of laughter, peaceful and grinning and happy.

"I was--" he starts when he's calmed down. "I was just thinking that I probably should have bought you dinner first."

Steve huffs a laugh and doesn’t say ‘that’s a Bucky line’ because even he knows Sanya wouldn’t appreciate comparisons.

“There’s still time,” he teases, easing out of Sanya just as frantic banging begins on Sanya’s door. 

Steve tenses and a girl’s voice calls, “Sanya? You ok in there?”

Sanya tenses as well, but it's not the fearful, defensive tensing like earlier. "Yeah. Don't come in, I'm--" He spares a look at Steve and grins. "I'm indecent."

He can hear the confusion in her voice when she says, "Indecent? What are you-- oh my god." He worries she's come in but he doesn't see a brown head of hair peeking out of the hallway. "You're fucking Park Guy, aren't you?"

"Hot Park Guy. It's Hot Park Guy." Frankie corrects from behind her.

"Fucked," he clarifies, smug. "And it was great, thanks for asking." A high shrieked giggle from presumedly Frankie causes him to wince. "Now get out of here, you're ruining the afterglow.”

Steve shoves his fit into his mouth to suppress the laugh and looks at Sanya’s face where it’s relaxed and open. Happy. He’s feeling euphoric and playful, and he bites his lip and lets out an exaggeratedly loud moaning sound. He covers his snicker and calls out, “Sanya, be quiet! Your neighbors can hear us!” As if Sanya’s the one who’d made the sound.

Sanya gets a mischievous look on his face as his metal hand reaches down and pinches Steve's side, somehow sure that Steve was, or at least used to be, ticklish. Steve shrieks in a pitch he hasn’t heard since he was small and bats away Sanya’s hand. Sanya mimes Steve's moan, pitch rising high before he barks out, "Steve!"

"Okay, okay! We're going!" Rose calls, muttering a few choice words under her breath. He waits to hear the door close and two sets of feet retreat down the hall before he lets his giggles fly free, clutching at his stomach with his free hand and-- oops, there's a mess.

"You wanna join me in the shower?" He poses, his lips curving into a smirk.

Sanya’s disgusted face at touching his mess sets Steve off again and it takes a while for his to calm down, probably a little hysterical.

“Yeah, I think that’s a good idea,” he grins, groping the curve of Sanya’s ass playfully before getting up and pulling Sanya to his feet.

Steve arches, spine popping and muscles bulging, before reaching for Sanya’s ruined shirt and pulling it over his head, greasy hair falling over his face. Sanya's smiling and joking around until Steve reaches for the shirt and he stiffens, letting him pull it off but immediately casting his eyes away, angling his left side away from Steve's line of sight.

He feels raw and exposed under Steve's gaze, self-conscious and ashamed of the ugly scar tissue that spreads out from the seam of his metal shoulder where he'd tried to claw it off more than once.

Steve’s face falls at the sight of Sanya’s expression. It takes him a moment to register what he’s hiding by turning his body, and when he realizes they’re fresh scars he can’t help the devastation on his face. 

“Oh, honey,” he murmurs, reaching for him gently. Steve traces the scarring with soft fingers, careful.

“Sanya, you don’t ever have to hide from me.”

He pulls away, unable to look Steve's expression, and see the pity-- the pain, or the big one -- disgust.

Steve's hand is warm and soft. Sanya has to blink to keep tears away. He rarely cries, but here with Steve it's inevitable. "It's ugly." He whispers, his meaning clear. _I'm ugly._   
“It’s yours,” Steve replies, broadcasting his movements as he moves to kiss at the scarring on his shoulder lightly.   
Tears slip down silently as Steve kisses his scarred body. Absentmindedly, he wonders how Steve became so good. A soft voice pipes up, _he always was._

“I know it’s not the same, but I still struggle with this,” Steve says, patting his naked chest. He leads Sanya towards where he found the bathroom the last time that he was here.

“I felt—still feel, sometimes— that it’s something that was given to me that I can’t get rid of. But I know deep down it’s not. This body is mine, and I get to control what I do with it.”   
Sanya wipes away his tears with his elbow and follows Steve, listening. Steve doesn't know, he doesn't think, how untrue that statement was - this body is mine and I get to control what I do with it - just a few years ago for Sanya. Sometimes he still feels that way. He definitely feels that way about his arm.

Steve turns the shower on and says casually, testing the temperature with his back turned, “like using it to make a HYDRA defector come twice in an hour.”

Sanya barks out a wet laugh, head falling forward, hair falling around his face in a curtain. "You. You are very good at that," he admits, stepping forward to test the water himself. Sufficiently warm, he steps in and turns around, pulling Steve in after him. He has a soft smile on his lips, even if it is a little sad around the edges.

"Thank you." He murmurs, resting his head against Steve's.

“I should hope so,” Steve teases, washing Sanya’s hair with gentle fingers and himself in rough, quick scrubs the army would be proud of. 

He kisses Sanya’s scarring again before he steps out, giving him some space. He dresses in his clothes he’d left behind— clean and blood free— and settles on the couch, hair drying in a flop over his forehead. 

He has the file out in front of him, fingers tapping in anxiety as he waits for Sanya to join him. 

Sanya rinses his hair out after Steve leaves, washing down the rest of himself quickly. He takes a little bit longer applying his lotion and working it into his skin. It's something he does whenever he's having a stressful day, reminding him that he's alive and allowed to treat himself like this.

He towels off and heads for his room, stopping abruptly when he spots the mess of papers scattered over his floor. Carefully sidestepping them, he pulls a selection of clothes out and changes into them.

Exiting in a neon pink sweatshirt and soft sweatpants, drying his hair as he walks out to the living room.  
Steve does a double take at the sweater and smiles. 

“Suits you,” he says, reaching out to tuck some wet hair behind Sanya’s ear. It’s thick and unruly and falls right back in front of his face. 

Steve’s smile drops as he looks down at the papers where he’s organized them into HYDRA, NOT HYDRA, and UNKNOWN. Sam and Clint are in NOT HYDRA while Maria Hill and Natasha were in UNKNOWN. 

Steve takes Maria and Natasha’s files and puts them in NOT HYDRA, eyeing Sanya for any dispute. Sanya returns his smile and takes a seat opposite of Steve, clasping his hands together in his lap. He looks over the files spread over his coffee table before pressing a finger to Maria Hill's. "Maria Hill is the deputy-director of SHIELD. Do you truly think she doesn't know?"

He spares Natasha's for now, picking his battles. That, and the fact that her image (it took him a long time to even find one, much less put together an entire file) causes a twisting feeling in his gut, a feeling like he's missing something.

“I’m positive,” he answers, tone serious. “My A team is clean.” Steve’s A team consists of Clint, Sam, Nat and Maria on management in place of Fury, who has better things to do.   
"I'm still going to vet them." He answers, a compromise. He trusts that Steve believes his team is clean, but Steve isn't a spy. Steve's too blinded by his trust for Sanya to take his word at face value. These people have been hiding in plain sight for years. He won't fault Steve if he fails to find the difference. They have had plenty of practice, after all.

Steve pulls Sharon’s file from the NOT HYDRA pile and sets it with his team. Every other member of his B team is compromised except for her, and he frowns at the red X Bucky put over Rumlow’s face. He points to it and looks at him questioningly. “He’s a creep so I’m not surprised, but why the X?”

Sanya’s teeth grind together at the image of the man, memories springing to mind of Rumlow in close quarters, of himself working with Rumlow's team, of the dehumanizing tone Rumlow took when they were alone and the man called him sweetheart.

"The X marks the people who helped HYDRA keep me captive."

Steve’s crumpling the paper in an angry fist before he knows what he’s doing, jaw working as he struggles to contain his fury. 

“I’ll kill him,” Steve hisses, throwing himself off of the couch to pace angrily. So many things make sense now; Rumlow’s obsessive questions about the Howlies, specifically “the sniper.” His overt homophobic jokes. The little sneers he would give Steve while receiving orders he didn’t like. 

Steve has just assumed that he’d eventually get assigned to work with someone like Rumlow; they were a dime a dozen in the military, after all. Bite your tongue and do your job and cover your ass in case their egos get too big for their britches. 

Steve remembers the way Rumlow commented on how the Winter Soldier should be taken out like a stray dog during one of their briefs. Steve’d fought to get him taken off of the recovery team for that and been stonewalled by Fury. 

“I’ll kill him,” he says again.

Sanya's expression is neutral in the face of Steve's rage. "You can't," he presses. Even he sounds frustrated about it.

"They'll notice and take you out before you can get two feet from the body." It kills him, because if he had the choice he would've put a bullet through the man's skull a long time ago.

He takes a deep breath, lets it out slowly. "There's ways to go about this. We have to be smart." He pauses, tilting his head towards Steve, his lips twitching in an attempt to bring humor to the situation. "I know that goes against your entire state of being, but try?"

Realization dawns on him and Steve turns an accusing finger at Sanya. 

“You’re playing a long game. You mean for me to stay with SHIELD so that I don’t blow your operations.” 

It makes sense in a terrible way. If hitting them head on didn’t work last time, clearly something more in depth needs to be done. Even though Steve has no clue what Sanya’s plan is he’s sure he doesn’t want him doing it alone. 

Steve flops back down next to Sanya and snatches his A team files plus Sharon. After a moment he drops Maria back on the table. 

“I need to bring my team in on this.”

"You have to think about this for a minute. You'll be shaking up their entire world, asking them to fight against people they know. Their friends; people they've known and worked closely with for years. Can you ask them to do that?" It's as much a question if Steve has the nerve as they do. 

He's not asking because he's worried their feelings might be hurt, he's asking because this is a huge thing to expect from a person, and it only takes one person to screw up years of hard work.

Sanya’s coming at this from an emotional perspective, but Steve’s s tactician too. He points to Natasha. 

“If we don’t bring her in now she’s going to find out on her own if she doesn’t already have an idea. This could get in the way of your plans.” 

He moves on to Clint’s file, his SHIELD photo old, showing a Clint before he broke his nose too badly to reset right. “Anything Nat knows Clint knows. They’re their own unit.” 

He moves over to Sharon and jabs at the ‘Carter’ that’s been highlighted by Steve himself. “We need eyes on the B team and I don’t have the temperament or the skill to work with them undetected. Knowing Rumlow for what he is creates its own challenges that I’ll have to navigate.” 

Steve picks up Sam’s file and smiles. “Having only one member of a team in the dark is a liability. Also, he only joined SHIELD because I asked him to join my team while I was doing group at the VA center in DC. I have to give him the chance to tap out, Sanya.”

Sanya sighs and scrubs a hand over his face, running his fingers through his scrabbly beard. "I can tell you're going to be a stubborn pain in the ass until I say yes."

“So you do remember,” Steve quips, not meaning it as anything more than a joke.

Sanya glances back over the files and sits back, slouching on the loveseat. "You can bring them in, but you can't tell them about me. Not yet." There's things Steve doesn't know and Sanya understands that he either has to go all in now, or give up before he's even begun.  
“I wasn’t planning on telling them, though Nat is sure to know I’ve got an informant right away. I trust them but you come first, Sanya. If it comes down to revealing your identity or keeping them safe I’ll probably just choose option three: punch some nazis.” 

Steve rubs his own chin with a wry grin, knowing it’s not going to be that simple.

"I have to show you something." Decision made, Sanya rises and stalks off to the bedroom to go through the file box on the floor. He pulls out a thick, weathered file and exits back out to the living room, holding it protectively against his chest.

He meets Steve's eyes, his own shuttered, then slowly extends the file towards him. It pains him to do so.

He sucks in a labored breath, then explains, "This is what they made me."


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the hiatus!

“What’s this?” Steve says, eyes widening at the angry Cyrillic nearly scratched out of the leather. 

Wide eyes meet Sanya’s and Steve purses his lips. He takes the file gingerly and sets it on his lap, eyes on Sanya’s the whole time. 

“Is this mission relevant?”

Sanya swallows, eyes darting between the file and Steve's face. Revealing this makes him feel vulnerable, but he reminds himself that it's different now. It's his choice, now.

"Somewhat. It-- it's easier if you just look at it."

The first thing Steve see’s when he opens the file is the picture of him in Cryo, taped to a paper that's written in Cyrillic but has English translations under each statement. 'ASSET #56898' is written in big block letters at the top of the page. 'CODENAME: WINTER SOLDIER' is marked right below it.

The file contains everything. Every procedure, every wipe, all written in language that treats 'Asset 56898' like less than a human being. When referred to without title, he is labeled an 'it'. 'Compliance training' is spoken about in great detail, most of the practices nothing less than abusive.

Sanya's gaze darts away and he resumes his seat, refusing to look at Steve for a long time.

Steve only gets a couple of pages in before he has to shut the file and toss it into the table. He feels sick. He feels helpless. 

“Sanya,” he rasps, hand over his mouth as he looks determinedly at the wall. “Do you want me to see that?” 

It feels too invasive to see all of that even as he wants to know everything Bucky went through because Steve didn’t go back for him. His own self flagellation isn’t worth invading Sanya’s privacy, though, and after the first couple of pages he doesn’t see any reason he needs to know the details.

Sanya tries and fails to get his breathing under control, suddenly afraid that Steve will be-- angry, disgusted, or irritated with him. It's an irrational fear, but no one ever said anxiety was logical.

"No," he starts, slow, watching for Steve's reaction out of the corner of his eye. As soon as the ‘no’ is out of Sanya’s mouth Steve’s pushing the file into his hands.

"It doesn't matter what I want. You need to know that I'm--" he struggles on a breath, his heart beating wildly inside his chest. "--dangerous." 

“I already knew that. You boxed as a boy and ran fists for the mob—” Steve huffs a wry laugh “—didn’t know I knew that, though.”  
"No, I'm--" Sanya stops, searching for the word. His head feels like it's full of cotton, talking about this, like he's wading waist-deep through quicksand.

Steve reaches tentatively for Sanya’s chin, stubble stiff under his thumb and forefinger. He can hear Sanya’s heartbeat. 

“You were the best sniper in the war and could sneak up on a man and slit his throat before he even knew what was happening. You’ve been dangerous my whole life and it ain’t ever stopped me trusting you.”

"This… mission. Is dangerous." Sanya stammers. It's difficult, sometimes, to articulate what he wants to say. He'll know it, in his head, and it makes sense, but when he tries to get it out through his mouth it all gets jumbled up.

"HYDRA is dangerous. If they--" he clears his throat, flipping the file open and ignoring the bile that rises up his throat. He turns to a page about triggers and pushes it towards Steve.

"If they take me, promise me you'll stop them. Stop me." His eyes are wide now, afraid. He's afraid Steve won't do what needs to be done if the worst scenario plays out. 

“Hey,” Steve tries to sooth him, but Sanya pushes him on and Steve takes the file back and reads. He reads carefully, sure that he fully understands everything that’s in there. He’s biting his lip so hard it bleeds by the time he’s done, not reading past the point indicated by Sanya. 

Steve hands the file back and asks, raw, “do you want me to kill you if you’re activated?”

Yes. That's what he's trying to say. His face lights up because Steve gets it, even though he looks-- he looks as if he's just been sucker punched, his mouth in a tight line and his eyes haunted.

"You have to." He reasons, and it's easier now that he's not trying to go against his directives-- not allowed to harm HYDRA or its assets, do you understand, Soldier? Do you understand?

"If they capture me…" his body gives a full shudder, terrified by the idea. "I can't go back."

Steve watches him for a while, face blank, mouth covered by his hand. He focuses on his breathing because the idea of losing Bucky again, of losing Sanya to his own hand, nearly sends him into a panic. Sam taught him this. Focus on something—the curtains, the pattern. Breathe. Breathe. Breathe. The buzzing leaves Steve’s ears and he looks to Sanya, who doesn’t look much better off. Steve feels cold and shivers. 

“I can’t answer you right now,” he finally rasps, voice raw even though he’s been silent. “You have to know—” Steve stops himself. Of course Sanya knows, and that makes the request all the more dire.  
Steve turns a pleading look to Sanya. “Can we table this for now?”

He studies Steve's expression for a long moment. Slowly, he nods. He knows it's a cruel thing to spring on him, but Steve's the only one he trusts to get the job done. He inches closer on the loveseat and wraps his arms around Steve, telegraphing his movements. Laying his head on Steve's shoulder if he'll let him, he breathes in the scent of his shampoo and closes his eyes.

“Yes please,” Steve responds to the affection, clutching to Sanya and pressing his face hard enough into his damp hair that his eyes water. They sit for a long while, holding each other and breathing, until Steve pulls back a bit and searches Sanya’s eyes. 

“Are you—wanna get out of here?” Steve strokes his lip with his thumb. “I missed you so much. Christ, but I missed you.” Sanya presses his forehead to Steve's, parting his lips when Steve's thumb brushes against them.

Steve feels his eyes heating again and he pulls away and stands, clearing his throat as he starts to stack the files back together.  
Sanya takes a breath when he realizes the heavy weight in his chest is lessened, lighter now, and he wonders if maybe he's been missing Steve too.

"Yeah. I want to." Sanya doesn't say, wherever you go, I'll follow. He doesn't say, screw the lot of them, let's go to Spain, get out of here while we still can. He doesn't say, I don't want you to go. He does say: "I promised the kids I'd bring them dinner." A pause. "You wanna meet them?"

Steve stashes the files in a hole underneath the lining of the couch with a grin. Sanya may not remember much, but some habits are in grained; like hiding you queer and socialist booklets somewhere a raid won’t find them. 

Steve stands with a hop, shaking off the melodrama from the moment prior with a sheepish grin. 

“Well I already met ‘em, and I’m sure Frankie’s sis ain’t gonna be too keen on me. I kinda ran into her last time and didn’t stop to apologize.”

"You did now, huh?" Sanya raises an eyebrow, appraising Steve with a look that Sarah Rogers would be proud of. "You don't gotta if you don't want to." He rises from the loveseat and starts towards the kitchen, pulling a box down from where it's hidden away. "But they get paranoid if I'm late."  
“That’s not what I’m sayin’ at all,” Steve protests, “I’d love to meet ‘em. We going out or cooking?”  
"Out. Thursday is pancake night." For the kids, at least. They always prefer a short stack drowning in syrup over anything else offered.

It's a tradition from way back, dinner on Thursdays, an evening made occasion since the night they found Sanya. He'd looked worse than they did, which was saying something since they were two scrawny homeless kids. Pooling their money together and taking him to a twenty-four hour diner was the first act of kindness he'd been shown in a long time, and he's been with them ever since. Pocketing money and a few weapons, he pulls his shoulder-length hair up into a loose bun.

Sanya’s hair in a bun does something to Steve and he steps over to press his lips to Sanya’s nape, lips brushing the edge of a long scar that he felt a bit of when they were in the shower and Steve was washing his hair. He moves away from it after a single kiss so that Sanya doesn’t think that’s the reason for Steve’s affection and moves his lips to the juncture of neck and shoulder, arms snaking around Sanya’s waist from behind. 

“Like the hair.”

Sanya shivers, closing his eyes a little and leaning back into Steve's arms as he continues exploring with his lips. His hands rest over Steve's, neck tilting to the side so Steve has better access.

"Mmm." He mumbles, sucking his lip into his mouth. "I should wear it like this more often, then."

“You should,” Steve agrees, opening his mouth to suck a mark onto the skin, rubbing himself against Sanya’s backside. He knows it’ll be gone in minutes but he still revels in the sight of it, squeezing Sanya tightly before letting go with a sigh. Steve readjusts himself and combs his fingers through his hair before shoving the knit cap back on. He finds his flannel where it’s bunched on the ground and shifts it on, leaving it unbuttoned and his T-shirt untucked in a very Not Steve Rogers way. 

“I look like an asshole,” Steve sighs, sliding of the fake reading glasses, and looks at Sanya.

Sanya turns back and chuckles, reaching forward to smooth Steve's bangs down. His hand traces the edge of Steve's jaw and he smiles, ticking his head to the side. "No. You look like a hipster."

He has to admit though, the glasses are doing it for him in the way they make his eyes look bluer, brighter. He tells him as much and closes in, slipping his hands around Steve's waist to find purchase in his jean pockets. He's going to be late, but he can't think of a better reason to be so than this, right here.

“You know I don’t know what that is,” Steve grumps, kissing Sanya softly and pulling back when he tries to deepen it. “We gotta engagement,” Steve chastises, taming Sanya’s hand and leading him out of the apartment. 

Steve waits at the top of the stairs while Sanya does whatever spy stuff he needs to do to feel like his apartment is secure and holds out his hand in case Sanya decides to take it.

Sanya joins up with Steve at the stairs, locking the door behind him. He pauses and eyes Steve's hand for a second before intertwining his fingers between Steve's, a giddy rush bubbling up at the simple action and the meaning behind it; mine.

He leads him down the stairs and a few blocks east, the diner coming up on their right. It's a homey establishment, with bright yellow walls and checkered flooring, booths with red leather seats taking up space against the wall. Sanya greets the waitress, an older woman with a kind smile, and calls up his order from heart. Several stacks of pancakes, half a dozen burgers, extra curly fries because he can, three milkshakes (and another for Steve). Then he turns to Steve, tipping his head towards her so he knows to order what he wants. 

Steve’s not paying attention to what Sanya’s doing, too busy processing how the ease with which Sanya exists in the world surprises him. He’d expected brusqueness or anxiety, but this—this is Bucky. He watches him with an expression he’s sure is getting some looks from the staff behind the counter, a group of teenage girls wearing aprons embroidered with the restaurant’s logo. 

“Yeah,” Steve finally replies to Sanya, expression dopey, “go ahead and double the order.” Whatever doesn’t get eaten the kids can keep in their icebox for later. Before Sanya can pay Steve’s holding out a wad of cash, unsure of the total and honestly pretty bad with money these days. 

“Keep the change,” he tells her, wondering if $100 was too much or not enough. The thought makes him nauseous.

Sanya just sort of stares at the money, then bumps Steve's hip when the waitress takes it, rings their order up, and steps away. "I thought I was gonna buy you dinner." He's amused, eyes twinkling when he looks over at Steve.  
"You tryin' to sweeten me up, Stevie?" He doesn't know where the accent or the nickname came from, it's there before he realizes it.

Before Steve can respond there’s the familiar click of a camera. Natasha taught him to act fast to prevent photos being uploaded to the internet, and he pulls a device out of his pocket and hits a button. 

There’s a small chorus of frustrated noises as the patrons using their devices suddenly find them wiped. Steve pockets it and gives Sanya a guilty look. 

“Nat gave it to me. I hate destroying other people’s private property,” he whispers, “but we gotta keep our faces out of the internet.”

"Nat," Sanya responds, testing out the name on his tongue. "You're pretty close with her, then?"  
“Yeah. She was the first person I trusted after I thawed, and she’s been a reliable friend ever since.”  
Reluctantly, he lets go of Steve's hand to pick both bags up, thanking Maggie before he turns, exiting the diner and taking a brisk walk back to the apartments.  
They walk in silence for a while, Steve taking one of the bags so that he can hold Sanya’s hand. Steve feels like he should tread lightly with this. Natasha has said she knew the Winter Soldier, but Sanya’s made no indication that he remembers.

Sanya lets himself into the kids' apartment and sets the bags on their table, motioning Steve inside. Not soon after, the thump of running footsteps produces an excited Frankie, red candy stains smeared over his face. "Sanya! Hot Park Guy!" He exclaims, then turns to the bags with a dreamy expression and yells, "Pancakes!" 

Steve can’t help his big laugh at Frankie’s energy. “Name’s Steve,” he tells him, eyes on Sanya to make sure giving his real name is ok, “but you can call me Hot Park Guy all you want.” 

He cringes when Rose comes down and turns, kicked puppy expression. “Hi. Sorry about the other day, I was—“ 

“I heard you shouting at him earlier,” she says, sharp. “He’s not as tough as he looks. I dunno what your beef is but you better never raise your voice at him again or you’ll have to deal with me. And bitch don’t play, boy.”

"Rose." Sanya starts, turning the full force of his soft-eyed expression on her. "I can take care of myself." His voice is gentle, though, not reprimanding but guiding.

She turns to him. "No offense," she says, like she usually does when she's about to say something offensive. "But you have a terrible track record with men."

Sanya flinches, almost imperceptible. "Not this one." His voice is a little quieter, and he meets her eyes with an expression that pleads with her to drop it. "Let's eat, okay?"

That catches Steve’s attention and he turns to Sanya, eyebrows raised. “You have a track record?” He asks dumbly, jealousy curling uncomfortably in his gut. Before they can get into it Frankie’s in his face with a squint. 

“I feel like I’ve seen you somewhere,” he says, mouth full of pancakes, “and that’s not a pick up, I know better than to encroach on Sanya’s territory.” 

“You have”, Steve answers easily, “in the park.” He turns to Rose and opens a container of hamburgers, taking one out. 

“I shouldn’t have raised my voice at him, you’re right. I’m glad he has someone around to look out for him.” 

He takes a big bite to hide his blush. There’s so much more he wants to say, but he’s supposed to have only just met Sanya and declarations of lifelong loyalty don’t typically happen this soon.

Rose brings forward plates and pushes Frankie into a chair, setting one in front of him and then laying one in front of the rest of the chairs. Sanya helps set the takeout containers on the table, then serves himself a mix of burgers, pancakes and fries.

When Rose takes her seat, she studies Steve with sharp eyes, then casually comments, "If you hurt him, I'll kill you." Sanya drops the burger he's taken a bite out of and coughs, trying not to laugh.

Steve also cough-laughs, patting Sanya on the back and himself on the chest. 

“Damn,” Frankie says, and Rose swats him for cussing. 

“I like her,” he finally tells Sanya, wiping a tear from his eye, “she’s tough.” 

"She is that." Sanya takes a drink of his milkshake, shaking his head as he listens to the kids laugh together.

Steve keeps eating and listens to Frankie jabber on at Sanya and Rose, jealousy burning in his chest, unable to stop wondering what Sanya and Rose meant about others.

After dinner, he has them put the food away in their fridge while he takes care of the dishes. Frankie hugs Sanya for a fleeting second before he's running away to burn off his sugar high.

Sanya loads the dishwasher and then turns, leaning against the counter while he dries his hands.

"You okay? You seem quiet."

“Hm? Oh, yeah,” Steve answers absently, tying off the garbage bag to take out to the dumpster. 

Steve’s feeling mixed emotions; the jealousy, sure, but also the nostalgia of seeing Bucky wrangle kids and step into the parental role so easily. He’d been that way with his sisters and with the Howlies and Steve knows deep down that Bucky had always wanted to be a father. 

He’s planning on just leaving it be when he stops and leans his head against the doorframe, setting the bag down. 

“How long have you been out?” He asks quietly. “To have a history of relationships.”

"Is that what this is about?" Sanya asks, pushing off of the counters to saunter over to Steve. "You're upset at what Rose said?"

He sighs and runs a hand through the top of his hair, joining Steve and leaning against the frame. It takes him a few moments to put together his words, his brows drawing together as he thinks.

"Four years. It took me a long time to understand how to be a person. I was... vulnerable. Innocent." He's not looking at Steve, instead his gaze is glued to the floor. "A few people took advantage of that." He shrugs his human shoulder as if it's nothing important. "It's not as bad as it sounds."

Steve lets the shame show on his face. He needs to ask; he has to know. 

“Did you care about any of them?” 

He feels lower than dirt pushing this. After all, Sanya doesn’t owe Steve anything and he’d been worried about being the one to take advantage of him already.

Sanya’s inhale is shaky, and he tugs on Steve's arm so he'll head outside the door. He doesn't want the kids overhearing this like the eavesdroppers they are. When they're in the hall, he starts a slow walk, something to keep his body occupied. "At the time, I thought I did. I hadn't known kindness in a long time, so I clung to the first person that gave it to me. It wasn't until I saw other people acting kind to each other that I realized cruelty wasn't commonplace."

It hurts to hear, Steve’s throat tight with it. Out of everything he’d been expecting with his reunification with Bucky, the potential of being replaced hadn’t been a worry. 

“I’m sorry I feel this way,” Steve tells him, catching his hand on one of his passes. 

“I know you’re not— who you used to be,” he says, careful of nosy kids, “and you don’t owe me anything.” 

Steve links their fingers and brings Sanya’s knuckles up to meet his lips. “It’s gonna drive me mad if I don’t know. Can you tell me about them?” It’s incredibly selfish of him to ask and a part of him hopes that Sanya gets offended just so that he’ll lose the lost look he’s currently sporting.

Sanya huffs, moving in close. He wraps his hand around the collar of Steve's flannel and pulls him flush against his own body.

"Only one day in and you're already bringing up exes, huh?" He doesn't seem as upset as he could be.

He settles Steve's hand on his waist, then wraps his own around Steve's neck, running his fingers through the baby-fine hairs at Steve's nape.

Looking deeply into Steve's eyes, he whispers, "None of them matter. They're not here, you are." He brushes Steve's nose with his own, pulling back when tries to kiss him. He wants this to stick in Steve's head.

"I haven't thought about any of them in a long time. And I have no reason to, now." He brushes his lips against Steve's, just a fleeting touch. "You hear me?" 

Steve nods and lets Sanya manhandle him, leaning in predictably for the kisses that Sanya keeps from him, teasing. Eventually Steve flips them so that Sanya’s between him and the wall and kisses him hard and deep, cupping his jaw to open his mouth. 

“I love you,” he replies, voice low. A furrow forms between his brows and he says, quietly, “I’ve only been out of the ice for three years. I can’t believe you were here the whole time.”

Steve's kiss leaves him breathless and panting, growing hard at the feeling of being manhandled by Steve. That's a kink he didn't know he had. His eyes widen at Steve's confession, stomach swooping at the emotion the man so eagerly displays. "Yeah?"

"I wish I had found you sooner." He admits, tilting forward to coax Steve into more kisses.

Steve doesn’t respond at first, the what if’s and could have beens poisonous. 

“We’re together now,” he says instead, kissing him deep and slipping a hand between them to grope at Sanya’s bulge. Steve sucks on Sanya’s tongue and feels himself getting riled up, thumb pressing into the dip of Sanya’s chin to hold his mouth open. 

Sanya groans into Steve's mouth, tilting his hips up to rock into Steve's hand. He's helpless to stand there and take what Steve gives him, not moving any more than he lets him. Until—

“Get a room!” They hear and Steve jerks back, face red and lips wet, hand jerking away from Sanya’s erection to hide behind his back as if caught stealing cookies. 

Rose has got one hand on her hip and the other covering Frankie’s eyes where he’s trying to claw them off, huge grin on his face. 

He jumps, blinking blearily at the two of them. He flounders for a few seconds before clasping a hand in Steve's, turning to him. "I have a perfectly good one upstairs." 

Steve’s mortified as Sanya leads him past the kids and up the stairs, paranoid now of what they think of him. 

“Err-“ he tries, but Sanya jerks him onwards and they clamber up the steps and back into Sanya’s apartment. 

Once the door is shut Steve’s on him, grabbing him by the thighs and lifting him easily, hungry mouth on Sanya’s. 

“You drive me wild,” he tells him, carrying him towards where he assumes the bedroom is. 

Sanya’s hands are everywhere. On Steve's face, his shoulders, rucking up his shirt so he can get to skin. He's insatiable, touching everyplace he can yet it's not enough.

"You and me both, pal," he moans, his thighs tightening around Steve's waist. He slides his hands around under Steve's shirt and maps out the expanse of Steve's back, muscles rippling as he moves.

"God, I need you. Want you." He breathes in between kisses, dragging his fingernails down the middle of Steve's shoulder.

Sanya’s nails across his skin is erotic in a way he’s not expecting and Steve keens into their kiss, biting at his lips as he stumbles into the bedroom. He tosses Sanya onto the bed and strips off his shirt with hooded eyes, hands going to his belt as he wets his lips.

"Yeah, c'mon," Sanya urges, just as keyed up as Steve is. His breaths echo, ragged, and he crawls backwards on the bed, unbuttoning his own jeans and shimmying out of them to fling them over the side.

Next is his sweatshirt, and he hesitates for a moment before pulling it off, baring himself fully to Steve's view. Steve crawls over him and kisses him again, hand at his chest to keep him down. His cock is hot and heavy against Sanya’s hip and he breathes deep. 

“You got any slick?” He asks.

Sanya tilts his head up into Steve's kiss, carding a hand through Steve's hair now that the cap has been removed; pulled off along with Steve's shirt.

"Under the mattress, on my right."

Steve presses their chests together as he rummages for the slick and tries not to think of who else Sanya’s done this with in this bed. Steve’d never been this jealous over Bucky. Maybe it’s because Sanya’s been with men, he honestly doesn’t know. 

Steve pops the cap and slicks his fingers while leaning back. 

“Turn over,” he says softly, more of a suggestion in his tone than an order. Before Steve would have been gruff and mean, but with everything he does and doesn’t know about Sanya he feels the need to be careful.

Sanya grins and flips himself, spreading his legs out. Making himself comfortable, he refrains from the urge to rub up against the sheets.

"You gonna touch me, or what?"

Steve slips a pillow underneath Sanya to make him more comfortable and kisses the swell of a cheek tenderly. 

“Maybe,” Steve hums, skating a slicked finger across Sanya’s hole. It’s not as loose as it was earlier and he prods at it lightly and sucks a hickey on Sanya’s ass cheek. 

“F’ya ask me sweetly.”

Sanya shivers, his words rushing down his spine in electric sparks. "Steve," he whines, burying his face in a pillow.

"I want you. I want you to touch me, need you to." He pushes back against where Steve's finger is teasing him. "Please," he adds, his voice wrecked.

His name on Sanya’s wrecked lips chips away at Steve’s self control and he presses two fingers inside of him, panting as if he’s the one being fingered. 

“You’re so beautiful,” he says, “so gorgeous. I love the way you look spread for me, Sanya.” 

Steve crooks his fingers and looks for Sanya’s prostate, gripping at Sanya’s cock and stroking in time to his fingers.

At both Steve's words and his ministrations Sanya gasps, moaning when Steve's fingers skim over his prostate, making him see stars. He's louder, now, little rhythmic noises to the tune of "ah, ah, ah".

The combined pleasure of Steve's fingers and Steve's hand on his cock is too much too soon and he's rocketing towards the edge. He scrabbles for purchase on the bedsheets and finds none, his metal hand splitting the fabric when he pulls too hard. 

"Steve, oh, fuck. Steve. I'm gonna, you gotta slow down."

All of the sounds Sanya’s making are too much and go straight to his cock. He could come just like this, listening to Sanya’s gasps of pleasure and feeling the way that his body clenches and writhes around him. 

“I’ve got you,” he soothes, removing his fingers and his hand to immediately replace it with his cock. He lines up and shoves in sharp and smooth, shoving Sanya’s face into the mattress and moaning long and low.

Steve starts to fuck him in earnest, hands at his hips to hold them up, sharp ‘slap slap slap’ matching in tune with Steve’s low ‘haa haa haa’. 

“S’ok sweetheart, you can come.”

Sanya does, then, as if all he's been waiting for is Steve's permission. He comes with a hoarse cry, muscles pulling taut as his back arches, sweat glistening over his body.

He relaxes into the mattress and groans, boneless and euphoric.

Steve fucks his plaint body for a few more minutes before he’s coming too, forehead pressed into the sweaty curve of Sanya’s spine. Steve goes pliant on top of Sanya, face pressed between his shoulder blades and arms snaking around his hips to hold him close. 

Sanya grunts, tilting his face to the side so the mattress doesn't muffle his words.

"God, what do they feed you?" he pauses for dramatic effect then continues, laughing, "It's like I've got an elephant lying on top of me." 

Steve gnaws on the sweaty skin of Sanya’s back in protest and lets all of his weight fall on him.  
Sanya groans like a dying cat dramatically, reaching out to the side with his hand towards nothing in particular. "I'm suffocating. I can see the light."

“Mostly protein powder and smoothies,” he says woefully. “That’s the first burger I’ve had in months.”

He gives up the act and twists his head a little more so he can see Steve. "Well, then, I'll just have to shower you in burgers." He pauses, eyebrows crinkling at that mental image. "Metaphorically." He's proud to say he's not exactly thinking straight because of how goddamn dopey and happy he is right now.

Steve’s content to smother Sanya to death. Unfortunately his phone starts to make it’s annoying ringtone in the pocket of his pants and he groans in annoyance, rolling off of Sanya dramatically and rummaging around the floor by the bed. 

“No privacy in the future,” he grumbles, pulling it out and flipping it open. He hits the green button and puts it to his ear. 

“Rogers,” he answers gruffly, and his face falls into a frown. 

“Captain Rogers, it’s Hill. Your team got into a situation and we need you here for debrief and disciplinary action.” 

“Two guesses on which team?” He asks, fist clenching. Last week it would have been wry, like misbehaving children, but now that he knows— 

“I suggest you temper your anger, Captain. You’ll have plenty to be mad about when you arrive.”

Steve nods and says, “I’m on my way.” He snaps the phone shut and his shoulders slump, forlorn gaze cutting to Sanya. 

“I got no idea how to do this.” 

Sanya’s quiet until Steve hangs up, then he reaches a hand out to place over Steve's balled up fist.

"Just like any other time. It has to be business as usual. How would you respond if you didn't know that they're HYDRA?"  
Steve’s jaw tics but he turns his hand over to twine their fingers together. 

“Fuck. I don’t even know. They’ve been testing my patience for a while.” 

He holds onto Sanya’s hand and flips his phone back open, keying in Sharon’s number and putting it to his ear. It rings and goes to voicemail— she’s out for the week and will be back Monday. 

Steve closes the flip phone and sighs in relief. “Ok. That makes this a little easier.”

Sanya raises an curious eyebrow because he's not telepathic.

"We should talk about the plan a little later," he suggests, aware that Steve might not get out of briefings for the rest of the day once he goes in.

"I need to check in with my contacts, see how they're coming along." Which is. Not his favorite thing, because one in particular likes to talk his ear off but he's really fuckin' useful and he's doing this all as a favor to Sanya, so maybe he should be a little grateful.

“I feel like we should have one going in,” Steve argues, but moves to dress quickly. He bends to kiss Sanya where he’s sprawled on the bed.

Sanya raises a hand to Steve's jaw, holding him there for a moment so he can kiss him deep.

When they part, he responds, "My contact is compiling a list and definitive evidence of HYDRA's influence. It's taking them a little longer than anticipated but he promised he could get it done."

“You think you can trust this person?” Steve asks, and kisses him back before he can get a smart response. Yeah, that was a dumb question.  
His lips curl into a smile. "I sure hope so." Sanya truly doesn't believe his contact has it in him to be HYDRA. On top of being genuinely remorseful for his mistakes, Sanya'd saved his life twice. It's the type of loyalty that he hopes won't go away anytime soon.  
He smiles at Steve, comforting and trusting. "Business as usual, yeah?"

“Business as usual,” Steve agrees, kissing him chastely one last time. 

Steve stops at the door. “I’m gonna tell my team, though.” His gives him a look to make sure it’s still ok.

Sanya lets out a breath and nods. As much as he wants to, he 'can't go this lone ranger style, Terminator G.I. Joe', as his contact had said. He knows bringing Steve's team into the fold is the right move, but it's still a risk.

"Just. Don't tell them near any cameras, yeah? The walls have ears." He doesn't think Steve's green enough to make that kind of mistake, but it's fun to push his buttons. 

“But Sanya,” he says, voice a false confused, “how will I know where they are?”


End file.
